


inferno

by soleils



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Blood and Gore, Demons, Exes now Enemies, Exorcists, M/M, Masquerade Ball, Reapers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 02:38:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14126292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soleils/pseuds/soleils
Summary: “I never knew such a delicate face could spew such hurtful words.” The Exorcist purred as he slid the blade up Taeyong’s jaw, forcing their eyes to meet.“You couldn’t kill me, even if you wanted to.”—In which a silver-haired reaper flirts with death.





	inferno

**Author's Note:**

> **warning:** this fic does have some gore. please do not read if that makes you uncomfy!  
>   
>  hi! i've wanted to write something like this for a while now, and I finally got around to finishing it. this is my first time writing gore, so its nowhere near perfect, but I hope you like it!  
>   
>  * I mention _il bacio della morte_ which literally translates to the kiss of death.  
>  * Inspired by camille saint-saëns' [Danse Macabre](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YyknBTm_YyM)  
> 

The velvet curtain of a starless night drapes everything around him; a single lamp post in the distance blinks sporadically.

Steps behind him pound violently on slick asphalt: arrhythmic, heavy, _urgent._ Sticky sounds that ricochet against concrete walls.

There must be two of them now.

But he has this under control. He always does.

The beats of his heart accent the staccato of his own footsteps: short, light, quick. A soft allegro to their frenzied accelerando.

He’s almost there. Just a few more steps until the end of the alley, where he could make a sharp turn and buy infinite time.

He reaches back to grasp at the hilt of a katana, unsheathing it in one smooth motion and bringing it down to slice through a barrier invisible to the naked eye. A weak attempt at an illusion made to stop him.

The carbon blade was so dark it melted into the night, with only the hiss of ruptured wind and shattered magical energy left as evidence in its wake. It was a pity there was no time for dramatics in a high-speed chase, or he would’ve used both of his twin blades.

He powers into the open space, using his momentum to swing around the building corner before bursting into colorless flames.

A figure clad in an immaculate white tailcoat emerges from the feathering smoke as remnants of sparks and embers fall to the concrete, scarring the surface. He reaches a gloved hand into an inner breast pocket for a masquerade mask, black metallic veining disrupting its gilded surface. Once, twice, three knocks to a grand oak door suddenly carved into the concrete façade, and then it opens. He slips the mask over silver locks, gel slicked and parted, before crossing into the threshold and the door groaning to a close.

Heavy steps reach the end of the alley seconds later, necks snapping side to side in search of a now lost target. The smell of remnant ash stings at their nostrils as a shrill voice crackles into an earpiece. The oak door and all-white clad figure now nowhere to be seen, with only smooth concrete walls left on either side. Two pairs of desperate eyes comb the sidewalk to no avail, as the honking of taxis and ever-present smog permeated the downtown air and dampened their senses.

The Reaper was gone.

 

* * *

 

Thrumming fingers against polished cherrywood, Doyoung flinches, feeling the air-pressure change ever so slightly. He pushes himself off the dining table too sickeningly extravagant for his tastes, the length of his cassock trailing behind him as he leaves the room.

Taeil was nowhere in sight, having left Doyoung sitting alone in a dining room hidden deep within ornate walls—on account of boredom. The sound of strings muffled by thick plaster increased as he made his way down a dimly lit hallway, combing the open rooms on either side for the unreliable Bishop.

Not that the title of his superior mattered—a replacement was coming soon enough.

A crash came from a room ahead, the only doorway that had yellowing crown molding, blighted with rot.

Doyoung quickened his pace, tugging at his left sleeve to expose sizzling runes centered down his forearm. He gritted his teeth, angry at the continuous irresponsibility of someone who was supposed to have _his_ back, not the other way around.

Tonight’s job was his call to glory. The higher-ups would worship him.

_The Reaper Killer_.

Yet here he was, babysitting his “superior.”

Seconds before he reached the room, Taeil stepped out holding a silver platter overflowing with cheese and fruit. The bishop turned toward him, an infuriating grin plastered to his face, unfazed by the bloodlust oozing from Doyoung.

Taeil pops a grape into his mouth, savoring the crisp sound of breaking through its flesh before imminent dissolution. “You felt it, didn’t you?”

Doyoung ignores the question, adjusting his sleeve to cover seared skin, now rune free. The usual apathetic expression returned to his handsome features, meeting Taeil’s gaze once his cuff was pristine.

“Our guest of honor has finally arrived.”

 

* * *

 

Taeyong’s pupils contract instantly as his senses are hit with a barrage of sound, light and human movement. The ballroom he had stepped into was dynamic and dizzying, with hundreds of twirling figures dressed in victorian era costumes and feathered masks. Predictably, his costume was nowhere near as opulent as the rest, but discretion was the goal.

He had to tread lightly, his cover had already been blown once tonight.

Tonight, was _Il Giorno dei Morti._ A warped, bastardized version of an age-old tradition meant to pay respect to the dead, now turned into a pretentious party celebrating the corruption and death of living souls.

Bourgeoisie of the lethargic midwestern city he had been born into gathered yearly—ritualistically—to drink, dance, and laugh among members of The Order.

The Order, that keep them safe in over-privileged beds and hidden away in neo-gothic estates.

The Order, that didn’t give a shit about anyone other than their precious donors who fund every single crusade against an evil they can’t defeat. Shadows they pretend to fight, only to collude with behind closed doors.

But among the shadows, Taeyong thrived.

He protected the blissfully unaware living doing what he knew best, fighting against the very darkness that threatened to swallow the world whole. And that had The Order carving a bloodied target on his back.

This year was different. This year, The Order’s hunt for him had been more aggressive than ever before. And tonight, he had been forced to drop the comforting guise of the normal, mundane life he lived while the sun kept night at bay.

His fell blades had felt the caustic sizzle of more than enough demon blood this year, gifting him with the time and place of such a macabre display of wealth and self-righteous secret societies.

Every single hack and slash lead up to tonight’s singular definitive event, starring one woefully deplorable Reaper who harvested retribution.

This was Taeyong’s part to play. And that part was going to lead him right to endgame.

He sticks to the outer wall of the ballroom, choosing to watch this ritual of tarnished souls from behind the shadow of classical columns.

The bright canon of a live string quartet is robust, detestably joyful notes bouncing against the gaudy gold-leaf wallpaper of the ballroom. The players dig horse-hair bows into the steel of their strings, over-eager to create noise as their interpretation harbors on dissonant and their puppet-like smiles mirror the expressions of guests twirling, intoxicated on an insanity Taeyong would never understand.

If he was any other human the sight of this would have been suffocating, his morality ultimately stifled by temptation to join in the mania. But countless hours spent under moonlight releasing corrupted souls and looking into eyes that had chosen hell over life, had made him immune.

Goosebumps erupted onto his skin as demented laughter cut through the music and spread throughout the manic crowd. Even the performers doubled over, instruments tumbling to the ground and splitting against alabaster tile.

There was nothing more terrifying than the gathering of souls succumbing to their own vices, in a quest to lose their humanity.

The mass hysteria turned violent, climax imminent.

The hair on the back of his neck raised, uncontrollable laughter ringing in his ears as he reached into his coat jacket to grip at the hilt of his blades, waiting for the inevitable.

He crossed the short space between the wall and pillar, pressing his back against the fluted marble, not daring to look over his shoulder as he quietly unsheathed one blade to the sound of bodies slapping against tile, human exhaustion causing the laughter to decrescendo.

Silence began to replace glee as more and more sacks of skin smacked against the floor. The sound of his own controlled breathing turned deafening as the last echoes of mania subsided.

Seconds laced into minutes as the intermission stretched into what felt like hours, threatening to wreck his stability. Taeyong only had a vague idea of what he was waiting for, and in the position he was currently in, all he could rely on was his sense of hearing.

His allowed his vision to blur, having stared at the wallpaper too long, and he resisted looking over his shoulder, straightening his spine as he pressed his back into the pillar, tightening the grip on his hilt.

Then, the hissing started.

It was low, barely audible, starting like a timid whisper in a lover’s ear. It filled the vast ballroom, bringing with it a haze that wrapped around his ankles, lapping against the walls.

Then came the crunching of bones, softened by a rubbery sound that was no doubt the ballooning of flesh, as the corpses in the center of the ballroom bloated and deformed to finally let out wet bursts, gruesome metronomes one after another.

The air turned heavy, muggy; heat escaping from discarded carcasses causing his hair to stick to the back of his neck. His nostrils singed by a stench that was unmistakably the rot of souls long since corrupted by human vice, seeping into the atmosphere, escaping from every orifice, gaining freedom from lifeless flesh.

Their grisly birth had finalized.

The birth of demons, their numbers impossible to tell from listening alone, snarling and voracious, eager to fill a hunger that could never truly be satisfied. What bloodlust motivated, corrupt souls satiated.

The plan was to ambush them as they fed on their own, unaware of Taeyong slinking behind them as they drank from shredded arteries, rolling around chewy cartilage on their blackened tongues.

But just as he refocuses his vision to lunge out of the shadows, a hand emerges unnoticed, grabbing him by his collar, slamming him against the pillar.

There’s no way to retaliate the sudden whiplash from a hand stronger than him, leaving him reeling and dizzy, struggling to identify the silhouette pressing him against marble. Reflexes hindered, the blade in his hand is virtually useless as it slips to the floor, the metallic clatter amplified by vertigo.

Ironic, how he let himself be turned into the prey. Cornered on his own offensive attack, the anger of failure simmering underneath his skin.

The hands had moved to grip the trim of his tailcoat, the silhouette dressed in black coming into focus as a new smell reached Taeyong’s nostrils.

Burnt skin.

“Exorcist.” he spits, venom lacing his tone.

“ _Ah_ , reapers are as lovely as always.” The sadistic smile of the one man who deserved to get chewed to bits with the rest of the condemned, was now crystal clear and dripping narcissism.

He hated no one more. Even the demons feasting in the background paled in comparison.

“Get out of my way. Let me do the job your pathetic Order is _supposed_ to be doing.”

“Are you asking for my permission?”

Taeyong sucked at the moisture in his mouth, letting it gather on his tongue before spitting it on to the Exorcist’s face. It only manages to widen Doyoung’s smile, not even bothering to wipe the liquid as it dribbles down from where it landed on his cupid’s bow. “Besides, you know I can’t.”

“Today, you will.” Taeyong reached to unsheathe his other blade. “I’m not afraid to cause a scene among you scum.”

But in a matter of seconds, his own blade was already pressed against his throat. The grey matter of defeated demon blood stained its once lustrous surface and the edge felt blunt.

He hadn’t taken a close look at his blade in weeks—he really should be better at taking care of his tools.

“I never knew such a delicate face could spew such _hurtful_ words.” The raven-haired Exorcist purred as he slid the blade up Taeyong’s jaw, forcing their eyes to meet.

“You couldn’t kill me even if you wanted to.”

“I know.” Doyoung sighs, pressing the blunt edge deeper into skin as he frees the other hand to wipe away saliva. “I know— _we_ know _—_ you, and your choice to hide in the bowels of this decaying city.”

He glances down at the mystical carbon blade, expression calculating, but it reads disappointment, as if saying _this is it?_ He lets it fall to the floor, letting it join its twin before kicking both of them out of reach.

Even the clanging isn’t enough to cease the ever-present sounds of gnawing in the background.

“You could have been the most celebrated Exorcist in history. Posterity and the living alike would have worshiped you.” Doyoung loosens his grip on the white tailcoat, opting to snake his hands underneath its lapels to press them into Taeyong’s chest.

A familiar act of possessiveness.

“I’d rather throw myself to the demons, and see the look on your face as I’m torn apart by anything other than your hands.” He bared his teeth, on the verge of defensive.

“Shhh…I’m not finished speaking.” Doyoung slides elegant fingers up the length of Taeyong’s neck, grazing his jugular before tracing the v-shape of his jawline. “Instead, you chose to live the life of a crude supernatural vigilante who wallows under the moonlight and takes on the world.”

Taeyong sucks his teeth.

“It’s a _tragedy_ , really.” The Exorcist continues his exploration of Taeyong’s features, ghosting past pronounced cheekbones covered by the gilded mask and up to a strand that had loosened from earlier impact. “And tragedies bore me.”

“You don’t know shit about me, you never did.”

“I know enough.” He pauses, closing the space between them, smothering Taeyong’s smaller frame as he holds the latter’s face in the palm of his hands.

“I know how desperately you used to lick into my lips after a long night in the shadows; how the arch of your back felt under my palm. And how much we both like it when you tempt me.” The silver-haired Reaper starts to tremble, as repressed memories surfaced, causing cracks in his resolve. Doyoung flashes another smile, a cheap reproduction of what he’s learned to copy from humanity he misplaced long ago. “Is that not enough?”

Taeyong takes advantage of their proximity, wrapping gloved fingers around the Exorcist’s neck. Hand no longer shaking as he digs his palm into the windpipe. “I should’ve killed you when I had the chance.”

“Hm.” Doyoung manages to croak out a chuckle before mirroring Taeyong’s threat, sliding a hand down the former’s neck, but he doesn’t squeeze. “For what? We’re just pawns in a player-less game.”

“Rich, coming from the Exorcist who thinks they can gain glory from fetching my head, like a good little bitch of The Order.”

“I do miss that mouth.” He twirls a finger around the loosened silver strand, still keeping a hand on Taeyong’s throat.

“ _Fuck_ _you_.”

“That too.” He throws his head back, looking down at Taeyong through half-lidded eyes, taunting the Reaper to tighten the gloved grip on his neck, accustomed to the game they played. “But I’ve grown out of harboring wounded puppies with endless rage against the world.”

Doyoung grows impatient at Taeyong’s hesitance, dragging him from the pillar, prying the gloved hand away and wrapping his own arms around him in a suffocating back hug. He snaps the mask off silver locks, shattering as it hits the floor. Taeyong was to have a full view of the gruesome scene humanity created that night.

The faint echo of strings that never finished their allegro still bounced against walls splattered with steaming blood. A ghostly reminder of the transformation that happened moments ago. The only evidence of any former humans were the wayward piles of splintered bones sucked dry. The newborn demons were twisted, disfigured, and colored nauseating shades with grimaces permanently warped to show decaying fangs hanging from gray gums.

“They’re beautiful in their own misunderstood way. Pure, concentrated sin.” Doyoung rests his chin on Taeyong’s shoulder, speaking tenderly. “They’re a necessary evil. And we can’t just have Reapers crawling around exterminating a necessary evil, can we?”

Quick steps cut through incessant gnawing, forcing Taeyong to follow the direction of the sound. He spots a cassock gliding through the columns, a familiar face that had just come from the concealed deeper corridors of this hidden realm.

“It seems we’ve run out of time.” The Exorcist laments, aware of who was approaching without a glance in their direction. “Lovely speaking to you again.”

Doyoung loosens his hold, burying his face in Taeyong’s neck before marking him with _il bacio della morte_ that had ghosts of past affections laced in the action. He digs his right fingers into Taeyong’s jugular, as his stretched sleeve exposes glowing runes.

The Reaper brings a hand up to the blistering forearm moments from killing him, to trail a thumb down the ancient markings that left never healing scars. An affectionate habit his mind had forgotten, but his fingers had not.

The pair lock eyes one last time.

“See you in hell.” Doyoung beams at the Reaper’s last words, amused at the expression of unadulterated hatred looking down at him. The expression he’d been chasing all these years.

 “ _Doyoung_.”

 “Not now.”

“ _Do-young_.”

The footsteps were seconds away.

“Not _now_.” Doyoung growled, a foreign grip now on his shoulder threatening to break bone.

“Is that any way to address your bishop?” Taeil’s tone was severe, with Doyoung caught in a stalemate he was no longer in control of, a helpless pawn after all.

The two Exorcists stand with the resigned Reaper between them, whose eyes had wandered to the demons ahead of them steadily wailing, the corpses they were feeding on, cleaned. The newborns were brainless, harmless without prey, awaiting instruction from the hand that fed them.

“ _I’m busy._ ”

“You aren’t.”

Taeyong drops to the floor, clutching at his neck marked with evidence of certain death.

“Very well _._ ” He’d accept this defeat, graciously. Even Doyoung knew when to bow his head and accept orders, no matter how weak the superior. Ample opportunities would come to finish what he couldn’t tonight. “But you can’t kill him. He’s mine. I’ve earned him.”

“Earned him?” Taeil bends over from laughter, jeering at such entitlement. “You haven’t even earned your collar.”

Doyoung’s gazed darkened at such ridicule, frigid irises as capable of imprisoning souls as the ninth circle of hell. He turned to leave, his bubbling frustration causing contained runes to manifest themselves once more, unwillingly beneath his sleeve. They bit at his pain tolerance, a sure sign he was losing control, accelerated by his prolonged exposure to Taeyong.

The Exorcist walks away, throwing one last unreadable glance toward Taeyong. He disappears among the pillars, followed by a ghastly parade of wailing demons no doubt recognizing a member of The Order.

Taeil visibly relaxed as soon as Doyoung left the main ballroom, combing back his bangs as he glances around the room, his expression unclear, taking note of the dreadful remains of the perennial ritual he’d volunteered to oversee.

“What a fucking brat.” The Bishop extends a hand to Taeyong, helping him up. “Doesn’t he remind you of someone?”

The Reaper responds by averting his gaze, fingers still rubbing fresh violet marks.

“I told you not to come here.” His tone darkened, searching the face of the future he was risking his life to protect. “You were going to let him use the runes to kill you.”

The marble surface blurred as Taeyong’s contained emotions manifested themselves as tears, falling onto the floor below, melancholic kisses warmed by quiet anger.

Taeil grabbed the back of his brother’s head, bringing their foreheads together, a gesture leftover from childhood comfort.

“I would ask how school is going and the whole waging war against heaven and hell, but you don’t seem that talkative tonight.” He smiled sympathetically, unable to truly know how the other felt, the separate worlds they resided in a chasm between them.

“You aren’t doing me any favors.” Taeyong stepped back, embarrassed by a night full of displayed weaknesses.

“I’m not?” Taeil places a hand on the pillar behind them, it’s surface liquifying to form a thin oak door. “If you want to piss off a murderous ex, maybe keep it to a dark alley next time, ok?”

He pushes Taeyong through the portal before he can protest, back onto the same street he had escaped from. Seconds later, his blades follow, and he picks them up, making a note to sharpen them after class.

The night sky tainted by artificial city lights was starting to lighten, sunrise looming just under the horizon.

He searches for the moon as he walks through drowsy streets, finding the pale sphere fading, losing the perpetual battle to its heavenly opposite.

Two celestial bodies destined to succumb to one another, fated to coexist only under separation. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you got this far, as always, thank you so much for reading! ♡  
> Feedback is always welcome ;_;
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/soieiis) ✧˖°


End file.
